Read Online Judith Ivory by Untie My Heart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Untie My Heart
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blinking at how colorful it looked despite all the black writing, the colors of the Union Jack: white paper, red seal, blue thumbprint.
When she discovered herself to be glaring over it at the viscount himself, she made her eyes return to her lap. She jotted a few lines of nonsense, wanting to write, Idiot, jackanapes, scoundrel, purely difficult, overcareful ridiculous man! She stared at the tablet, while she tried to compose her own features. She kept glancing up though, more and more irritated.
He did the same thing, a thumbprint, on each page as it came before him, on both accounts, she herself having to pass most of the papers over to him from the string of solicitors and accountants who judged them as they came by: He signed, then sealed, then pressed a dark blue, impossible-to-counterfeit mark just below each signature. As he put his last thumb’s impression on the last page, the sight of it made her so angry her vision blurred.
Could he be more troublesome? Could he make this any harder? She sat there fuming. How many obstacles had she come over? How many ways had she tried to get him to pay his debt? And now this. A thumbprint, which she couldn’t possibly fabricate.
Think, think, she told herself again. How might she be able to? Whom might she know who could help her? First, though, she’d have to have an impression, the thumbprint. She could lay her white cuff over it, hope to take a likeness in wet ink. No, what a mess that would be, and it would bleed and lose detail. She could hand him something while his glove was off—
Right-o! Her cousin worked in Scotland Yard now. They did all sorts of things with fingerprints. She dropped her pen, then watched it roll as she realized, No, it was too round; she wasn’t sure a fingerprint would lift easily from it.
Think, think, think!
She crossed her legs and shoved her tablet off her lap with her knee. But, no, that would be too soft. When she bent to get her dropped tablet, she found her cloth purse. Beneath everyone’s line of view, ostensibly as she felt around for her tablet, she opened the drawstring, then rose up, noisily clattering out all the contents, dumping them. There must be something in there. “Oh, dear,” she said and dived under the table to look.
Upside down over her skirts in the dimness under the table, she watched her own mirrored compact skid. Yes, that would do it! Hard and smooth.
The compact came to a stop in front of the far leg of the viscount’s chair, a bit difficult to reach.
“I have it,” he said above her.
Or she thought he was above her. They were suddenly both under the table. Together. He’d removed his hat. He hair was dark, much longer than was stylish, and curled slightly. Her heart leaped into happy rhythm. Oh, yes, your lordship, you get it for me, she told herself. But the dark under the table became interesting in ways beyond obtaining his thumbprint. It had something to do with the way his round, shadowed eyes fixed on her, looking at her till she felt the blood rise in her face.
She pulled back, sitting up in her chair abruptly, feelingfidgety as she stared down at his wide back where it curved toward his shoulders. He was down on one knee—he had a true gallant streak, if nothing else. Or else a marked inclination to earn indebtedness from the hired help. Did he sleep with his housemaids? His laundresses? He was interested in her sexually, she would have bet money on it now. While she was only a secretary, for goodness sake. What was he doing, with all these long, heated looks?
Then she smiled to herself. He was interested in her sexually . When was the last time that had happened? Or, no, when was the last time it had happened, and she’d felt anything at all in return? There was the difference. Years! Though he was hardly her usual type. She usually went for the bad boys, the misfits and make-dos, the rebelliously wicked ones. Goodness, perhaps she’d grown up.
Then, no. As he rose back up into his
When she discovered herself to be glaring over it at the viscount himself, she made her eyes return to her lap. She jotted a few lines of nonsense, wanting to write, Idiot, jackanapes, scoundrel, purely difficult, overcareful ridiculous man! She stared at the tablet, while she tried to compose her own features. She kept glancing up though, more and more irritated.
He did the same thing, a thumbprint, on each page as it came before him, on both accounts, she herself having to pass most of the papers over to him from the string of solicitors and accountants who judged them as they came by: He signed, then sealed, then pressed a dark blue, impossible-to-counterfeit mark just below each signature. As he put his last thumb’s impression on the last page, the sight of it made her so angry her vision blurred.
Could he be more troublesome? Could he make this any harder? She sat there fuming. How many obstacles had she come over? How many ways had she tried to get him to pay his debt? And now this. A thumbprint, which she couldn’t possibly fabricate.
Think, think, she told herself again. How might she be able to? Whom might she know who could help her? First, though, she’d have to have an impression, the thumbprint. She could lay her white cuff over it, hope to take a likeness in wet ink. No, what a mess that would be, and it would bleed and lose detail. She could hand him something while his glove was off—
Right-o! Her cousin worked in Scotland Yard now. They did all sorts of things with fingerprints. She dropped her pen, then watched it roll as she realized, No, it was too round; she wasn’t sure a fingerprint would lift easily from it.
Think, think, think!
She crossed her legs and shoved her tablet off her lap with her knee. But, no, that would be too soft. When she bent to get her dropped tablet, she found her cloth purse. Beneath everyone’s line of view, ostensibly as she felt around for her tablet, she opened the drawstring, then rose up, noisily clattering out all the contents, dumping them. There must be something in there. “Oh, dear,” she said and dived under the table to look.
Upside down over her skirts in the dimness under the table, she watched her own mirrored compact skid. Yes, that would do it! Hard and smooth.
The compact came to a stop in front of the far leg of the viscount’s chair, a bit difficult to reach.
“I have it,” he said above her.
Or she thought he was above her. They were suddenly both under the table. Together. He’d removed his hat. He hair was dark, much longer than was stylish, and curled slightly. Her heart leaped into happy rhythm. Oh, yes, your lordship, you get it for me, she told herself. But the dark under the table became interesting in ways beyond obtaining his thumbprint. It had something to do with the way his round, shadowed eyes fixed on her, looking at her till she felt the blood rise in her face.
She pulled back, sitting up in her chair abruptly, feelingfidgety as she stared down at his wide back where it curved toward his shoulders. He was down on one knee—he had a true gallant streak, if nothing else. Or else a marked inclination to earn indebtedness from the hired help. Did he sleep with his housemaids? His laundresses? He was interested in her sexually, she would have bet money on it now. While she was only a secretary, for goodness sake. What was he doing, with all these long, heated looks?
Then she smiled to herself. He was interested in her sexually . When was the last time that had happened? Or, no, when was the last time it had happened, and she’d felt anything at all in return? There was the difference. Years! Though he was hardly her usual type. She usually went for the bad boys, the misfits and make-dos, the rebelliously wicked ones. Goodness, perhaps she’d grown up.
Then, no. As he rose back up into his
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